Making it Look Easy
by kittymchale
Summary: Born This Way is an anthem about embracing your flaws. As hard as it was to express your flaws, it was harder to battle them. MIKE/FINN BROMANCE


**Part 1 of 2!**

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><p>I sat in front of the letter press, white t-shirt laying limply in my hands. I knew exactly what words were going to be splayed across my chest, screaming loud and proud for everyone to hear.<p>

_Can't Sing._

Nobody understood why I was part of a show choir if I pretty much had no singing talent at all. It was all because I could dance. Dancing was the only way I knew how to express myself. Words didn't work for me most of the time. Body language speaks louder than words. It's the key to seeing true the true feelings residing deep inside someone. That's how I showed everyone what I was thinking.

As I set the shirt under the press, I heard the door crack open behind me. A pair of large sneakers appeared under the door, clopping clumsily inside.

"Hey, dude," I greeted Finn, turning my head to him. I looked back to the letter press, fiddling with the controls. Finn plopped on to one of the dingy orange chairs, the legs squeaking under the sudden weight. He set his elbows on his knees, clasping his shirt in his big hands.

"What's up, Mike?" He replied, sitting up and unfolding his shirt in his lap. I started to press the letters on to the shirt, cranking the handle.

"'Born This Way' shirts," I groaned, feeling a little uncomfortable with the whole concept. I figured that was the point, but I didn't know how telling everyone that I actually couldn't sing and I was in a club dedicated to singing. I kept cranking the handle of the press, the first four black letters plastered across the contrasting white background.

"_Can't,_'' Finn read off of the shirt. "Can't what?" Finn furrowed his eyebrows together, trying to decode the t-shirt so far. I bit my lip, shifting the shirt up to print the second part.

"Sing," I muttered, looking down at the crank. "Can't sing." Finn's eyes widened, raising his eyebrows. He made a surprised sound, mouth twisting in thought.

"Why are you in Glee, then?" He questioned, crinkling his shirt in his grip. He frowned, attempting not to offend me. This was exactly what I was thinking before.

"I dance. That's all I can do. I don't even know why I joined," I trailed off, printing the rest of the letters on the shirt.

There it was. My greatest insecurity. Written in huge, bold letters. I threw it over my head, checking the fit. Finn stood up after I stepped away, putting his shirt on the press. He changed around the letters, starting to turn the lever.

"It's kind of ironic," Finn started, chuckling dryly. "The thing you are the most proud about is your dancing and the thing you hate the most is your singing. It's the exact opposite for me. I can't dance at all. That's why Rachel's nose is broken." He started printing the first four letters, matching mine.

"It's not _that_ terrible," I tried to sympathize, remembering Finn's fist slamming carelessly into Rachel's face. She fell over hard, her head hanging low toward the ground. Her fingers flew over her nose, attempting to block the blood from gushing out.

"Really?" Finn half-smiled skeptically, raising a questioning eyebrow at me. I burst out with chuckles, cupping my hand over my mouth. Finn looked back at the press, cranking the rest of the letters out, "That's what I thought." He pulled the shirt off of the metal, stretching and pulling the fabric over his head. I stood back up, stepping up to be next to Finn. We were such a pair at that moment, our features all on different ends. Suddenly, Finn gasped a little.

"I have an idea," He started, turning to me. His shoes squeaked on the floor as he pivoted, holding his hands out in preperation to propose his idea.

"Hmm?" I asked, pulling my backpack over my shoulder. Curling my fingers under the straps, Finn started to explain the idea he had hidden behind his lips.

"Okay, so you can't sing, right? And I can't dance? Well, what if we put our skills together? I could teach you to sing and you could teach me to dance. It would be perfect. Maybe I could make my dancing a little less dangerous... and you could make your singing more... nice." Finn nodded, a stupid grin on his face. He used his hands as he talked, displaying the points he was trying to make through his fingers. I thought about his proposition, looking down at the floor thoughtfully before making a decision.

"You know what? Sure. Sounds good," I smiled back at him, getting a huge, bright one back. He patted my shoulder, slipping his backpack on.

"It's a plan," Finn chuckled, checking his phone. His face fell, squinting at the letters on the screen. "I gotta go meet Quinn. Something about someone named Lucy. Bye, dude." He pivoted back toward the door, bounding dopily out into the hallway. The door clicked as it closed, leaving me alone in the room.

I had to admit, I was excited. I've never actually _tried _to improve my singing. I just kind of accepted that I wasn't going to ever be as good as any of the other guys in the Glee club and that's how it was always going to be. Finn was the best at what he did, and maybe he could help me get a little bit better. Who knows? Maybe I could actually help him, too. I could at least teach him how to avoid punching girls in the face during Glee rehearsals, if that was all I could do.

Sighing contentedly, I stepped out of the room, dancing down the vacant hallway.

The next day, Finn sent me a quick text to meet him in the Choir room. I walked out of last period History, stopping quickly at my locker before making my way to my destined location. Opening the door, I stepped quietly into the vacant space. Finn was already waiting in there, beating mindlessly on the drums. I started shaking my head to the beat, moving gracefully to the sound filling the room. Finn frowned, stopping his rhythmic drumming.

"You make it look so easy, dude. It's not fair," groaned Finn, standing up rigidly from the stool. he stretched his arms, holding them over his head before flopping them lazily back to his sides.

"That's with you and your singing. It's the same deal," I chuckled, stretching out my legs before clicking open the CD player sitting on top of the piano, "Sammy Davis Jr.?" I asked him, reading the name off of the CD. Finn bobbed his head, nodding.

"Yep. I was thinking we could perform 'I've Gotta Be Me' for Glee before we do 'Born This Way" as a group. I figured if I could learn anything from you, we could do a number together. Plus, I think girls like dancers." Finn nodded, flicking the song on. "Now teach me your ways, sensei."

"Watch and learn, young grasshopper," I chuckled, starting a simple dance, floating to the beat of the song. Finn watched carefully, attempting to mimick each one of the movements, feet flopping clumsily along to the beat. I bent over, sighing. Grabbing a hold of one of his legs, I adjusted his movement. I kept moving his leg until he gained control of the sloppy step. More moves were tossed into the mix, Finn trying his hardest to keep up. All of a sudden, his legs went stiff, stopping in his spot. His torso went limp, sighing.

"Mike, this is so hard. I'm just-.. not a dancer. You're the dancer," He groaned, pulling his best puppy dog eyes. I squinted at him, poking his chest.

"You will not give up, grasshopper. Do you want to defy the odds or not?" I squinted, keeping my face stern.

"...Yes."

"Then, let's get dancing," I declared, starting the song again. Finn tried harder to keep up, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth. We would occasionally slow down, practicing each move carefully before stitching it in to the flow of movements. An hour went by, sweat beading on both of our foreheads. Our limbs were morphing into jelly, dancing becoming increasingly harder to do. By the time a janitor shoved his head into the choir room and kicked us out of the school, we had a mediocre dance routine. Routines are usually not my thing, but this one had potential. As long as Finn's feet went into the designated positions, we might be okay.

After we performed, I knew it would be my turn. My turn to feel the pressure beat down on me. My turn to be poked in the chest and be told not to give up.

It would be okay.

...Right?


End file.
